


Bitter Ruin

by haggarrrd



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haggarrrd/pseuds/haggarrrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras blamed himself. How could he not, when he had so clearly seen some horrific difference in Grantaire over the last couple of weeks, but had remained blissfully silent, foolishly believing that if the man he so dearly loved wanted to talk to him about whatever was hurting him, then he would. Enjolras had failed him terribly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Fall Asleep at the Helm

Enjolras sunk down into a cold plastic chair, finally exhausted of his frantic pacing session and simply too worn out by the events of the day. Sighing, he closed his eyes, only to open them again instantly, his hands fisting tightly into his blond curls as images of Grantaire sprawled unresponsive across the bathroom floor played beneath his eyelids. He thought he might go crazy, sat there completely useless in the cold waiting room, with images of his love almost dead the only sight in his mind, while Joly worked away in some room somewhere, attempting to save Grantaire’s life. Oh, how Enjolras prayed that he would be able to. 

Enjolras blamed himself for what had happened. And how could he not, when he had so clearly seen some horrific difference in Grantaire over the last couple of weeks, but had remained blissfully silent, foolishly believing that if the man he so dearly loved wanted to talk to him about whatever was hurting him, then he would. Enjolras had failed him terribly; even Courfeyrac had noticed that Grantaire had been drinking more than usual, and had warned Enjolras to keep an eye on him, but stubborn as ever and full of the belief that he knew best, Enjolras simply snapped at his friend, and told him to concern himself only with his own business. He wished now that he’d listened, and forced Grantaire to say something. 

He wished that he’d cancelled the meeting when twenty minutes had passed and they were still waiting on Grantaire. He wished that he’d at least sent someone to go and check on him, but instead he ignored the nagging feeling in the back of his mind and told himself that he had pressing matters to see to; he had been so sure that Grantaire would be fine, so he even remained in the Musain for ten minutes after the meeting had adjourned to talk to Combeferre about a rally across town. 

Oh, how he regretted it now, as he say in the waiting room with seven strangers surrounding him, all of their eyes focused on the ground as they waited for someone to come and relieve them of their worry. Enjolras laced his fingers together, in his mind sending a short prayer into the skies, begging for Grantaire to be okay, and for the dark haired man to forgive him for failing his duty to keep him safe and happy. 

Shoes squeaked along the polished floor, and eight pairs of eyes flashed up instantly to meet a portly nurse, who simply looked too exhausted to be standing as she clutched a clipboard to her chest. Enjolras was practically raising himself out of his seat as he stared at her, waiting for her to reveal who she was here for. Time dragged by, until she eventually called out, “Grantaire.”

Enjolras was out of his seat and across the room in the shortest of breaths, following the nurse, who was already briskly walking back down the hallway from which she had appeared. The blond haired revolutionary clenched his jaw as they walked, keeping in tears that he refused to allow presence on his face. 

When they reached the ICU, the nurse halted outside of a door, and indicated with her hand that Enjolras should go on in and wait in there. He complied instantly, not at all expecting to be met with the sight of Grantaire in a hospital bed. It was a sight that left him breathless, and his knees felt weak beneath him. Grantaire’s usually bright eyes were closed, and hidden beneath dark lids. An IV stuck precautiously out of his left hand, and Enjolras thought of how Grantaire would hate it if he could see it, for he had always hated needles. The thing Enjolras simply could not look at was the tubes that were protruding from his love’s mouth and nose, keeping him alive while Grantaire’s body was unsure if it could do the act by itself. But Grantaire was alive, and Enjolras thanked whatever deity there may be for the blessing.

“Enjolras,” The blond spun around, finally tearing his eyes away from Grantaire’s narrow frame to look at Joly, who was looking down at what Enjolras presumed to be Grantaire’s chart. He wanted to snatch it out of the other man’s hand and drink in every detail to know the true severity of the matter, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to understand the terminology without Joly’s assistance, so he knotted his hands together and waited for his friend to say something. Joly sighed, “This was a close one, Enjolras. Ten more minutes and he definitely wouldn’t have survived. Even now, we can’t be sure of the full extent of the damage until he wakes up.”

Joly flicked his eyes up to meet those of Enjolras, who simply gulped and asked, “So he might not make it? He might…die?”

“No,” Joly was quick to reassure. “No, he’s not going to die. He will make it through the night; I can assure you of that. It’s just… there were a lot of pills in his system, and mixed with all the alcohol he drinks, we can’t be sure of if it has done more permanent damage. I’m talking liver or kidney damage, so certainly something we would take measures to fix. He should awake in the morning, and then we have to keep him here for at least a few week on observation and sui—“

“What, why?” Interrupted Enjolras, who frowned at the thought of Grantaire held prisoner in the hospital for weeks, when he would be fine to return home sooner. 

“He tried to kill himself, Enjolras.” Joly spat sternly, speaking to his usually fearless leader as if he were a child; the same way Enjolras usually addressed the crowds he preached to. “I can’t just let him get up and walk out of here the second he wakes up, what if he tries it again?”

“He won’t,” the blond swore, his bright eyes glimmering with ferocity. “I’ll be there, I’ll make sure of it.”

Joly shook his head and ran a hand through his limp hair, “I just can’t do that Enjolras. You can’t watch him every second. He isn’t one of your causes, you don’t have to save him; just let us take care of him here, and then he can go home when we’re sure he’s fine. You can still visit him.”

“Joly please,” Enjolras whined, the prospects of Grantaire being locked away in a hospital while he slept alone in their bed was almost too much to consider. It wasn’t right, and Enjolras damn wouldn’t stand for it, “You know he won’t want that, he’ll resist everyone here as much as he possibly can. I can look after him, I can get through to him, trust me, please.”

Joly looked at the man who had passionately led them into so many protests, who fought tooth and nail to change the world, and the sight made his head ache painfully. He had seen Enjolras angry, he had seen him determined, and he had seen him elated as he sat with Grantaire, their heads close together, but never had he seen Enjolras look defeated, or desperate. Worse still, he had never seen Enjolras look scared, as he did now; not even when the police turned up to quell their riots with tasers in hand; even then Enjolras looked utterly fearless. 

Joly bit his lip, “I don’t know Enjolras, it could be risking my job if I didn’t report this as attempted suicide.”

Enjolras flinched away from the ugly words, but still wasn’t prepared to give in; Grantaire belonged at home, with him, where Enjolras could hold him and coo all his problems away. “Can’t you just report it as something else? Say that he’s just another druggie who overdid it, and you gave him all the pamphlets for rehab. You can do that, I know you can. Come on, Joly. He’s not going to get better in here.”

Joly’s face twisted; when had he ever been able to resist Enjolras when the man so bluntly demanded what he wanted? He sighed and nodded, even though he knew he was risking his job by making promises to Enjolras when he should have been putting his foot down. 

Enjolras smiled slightly and thanked his friend, then turned and sat in the chair beside Grantaire’s bed, cautiously reaching out and taking the hand that wasn’t homing the IV. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, the stony man realised that Joly had retreated to fill in forms elsewhere, and he finally allowed himself to cry; he only ever cried in front of Grantaire, who was the only man to ever see certain sides of him. Enjolras grabbed at Grantaire’s hand, kissing it repeatedly as he cried, salty tears falling from his eyes and onto Grantaire’s cool, calloused hand. 

“You’re a stupid man and I hate you,” Enjolras whispered as he cried, still clutching tightly to Grantaire’s hand. “But I could never really hate you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and when you wake up I’m going to tell you all the time that I love you.”

Enjolras wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, pursing his lips slightly; the rational side of his brain told him to shut up. Grantaire couldn’t hear him at all; he needed to save his words for when Grantaire was conscious, and could actually take what he was saying into account. So that he did, still holding Grantaire’s hand, and leaned back in his chair. It might be uncomfortable, and he might be breaking hospital rules by attempting to sleep there for the night, but there was no way he was letting Grantaire out of his sight again for a long time.


	2. I'll Cover You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire scoffed, “You do not love me. You simply pity me, and you cannot resist a pitiful cause. All of you, you all pity me. And I cannot even blame you, because I am nothing but a worthless drunk. ”

When Enjolras opened his eyes the next morning, his back stiff and his neck aching, Grantaire was still unconscious, the only sign that he was even alive the steady beeping protruding from a machine by his head. Still, Enjolras was not discouraged. Joly had said Grantaire would wake up, so he kept the faith that he would. Grantaire had to wake up, there was simply no other option in Enjolras’ mind. 

Courfeyrac and Jehan visited before Grantaire stirred, Marius in tow, but did not stay for long. Enjolras had worried, briefly, that they would be angry at him for not heeding their warning, and Courfeyrac had been, until he caught sight of how much Enjolras was blaming himself, and then he concluded that his friend would probably break if more guilt was placed upon his shoulders. The blond haired leader quite appreciated the distraction that his friend’s presence presented him with, but he was happier still when they left, promising to return in the morning, and he was alone, waiting for Grantaire to open his eyes. 

Eventually, of course, Grantaire did open his eyes, just as Enjolras had been drifting off into another fit of sleep. He perked up when he hear a quiet groan, and then Grantaire’s blue eyes slowly came into view as he blinked narrowly. Enjolras jumped up out of his seat and slammed his palm against the wall, hoping he had pressed the call button for the nurse to come and remove the tubes from Grantaire’s mouth so that he could speak again. 

“It’s okay, Grantaire, I’m here,” Enjolras soothed, although Grantaire was not fully awake yet, and probably wouldn’t be able to think and process through the grogginess in his brain for a further half an hour. His eyes were closed again, but Enjolras knew consciousness was returning to him from the way his hand curled slightly within his own; it wasn’t enough to be considered a grip, but it was enough to let Enjolras know that life was returning to his dark haired counterpart. 

Enjolras reluctantly dropped Grantaire’s hand when Joly entered the room, flanked by two nurses, and stepped aside so that they could do whatever they had to do to make Grantaire alright. Enjolras took his chapped lower lip between his teeth as he watched the delicate manoeuvres that he didn’t quite understand, until Joly turned around, a relieved smile on his face, and said, “He should wake up in an hour. Talk to him a little, it might help him come around.” 

Enjolras nodded, and retook his earlier position beside Grantaire’s bed. That hour was the longest hour of his entire life. He held Grantaire’s hand, playing absent-mindedly with his fingers, and talked to him about things that didn’t really matter, but he knew Grantaire would like anyway. He thought the hour would never come to an end, but fifty three minutes later, Grantaire once again began to stir, his eyes flicking open lazily the way they did whenever he slept in too late. He looked up at the ceiling, certainly unsure of his surroundings, and Enjolras opened his mouth to fill him in, but the cynic’s eyes snapped closed again, so tightly little creases formed in the corner. 

The dark haired man looked angry, his chest heaving slightly and his mouth mashed into a thin line. Enjolras didn’t understand, so he smoothed the pad of his thumb across the back of Grantaire’s hand, and in the softest tone possible, whispered, “Grantaire?” 

The man’s eyes opened slowly, but his face did not lose that angry glaze that puzzled Enjolras. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and the blond began to wonder if he had forgotten how to speak; Grantaire just glared at him with angry eyes, watering slightly at the corners, and then tore his hand out of the grip Enjolras had held over it. 

“Grantaire, please talk to me,” Enjolras begged instantly, his hand snaking its way back into Grantaire’s hand, this time not allowing him to retract the grasp. “Please, tell me what happened.”

“I cannot,” Grantaire tore his eyes away from Enjolras, tears springing free and staining his cheeks. He closed his eyes, bringing his free hand up to cover his eyes. The blond felt his heart tear slightly at the sight of the man who he had once thought to be so carefree, breakdown completely. 

Enjolras climbed out of his chair, and carefully placed himself onto the bed next to his boyfriend, squeezing into a space far too tight for his frame. He wrapped an arm around the fragile man’s waist and planted a kiss in his hair, “You can tell me anything, Grantaire.”

The cynic squirmed and twisted slightly, still crying in a manner that Enjolras had never seen anyone cry before. He took a deep, haggard breath, hiccupping slightly the way he sometimes did when drunk, and said in a distraught manner, “Please do not touch me, Apollo. Please, I cannot stand to be pitied any longer.”

“I do not pity you.” Automatically, Enjolras tightened his grip around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him closer, if that were even possible. He kissed Grantaire’s temple, then reached up to swipe his tears away with his thumb, attempting to be compassionate and loving, the way a mother would be with a small child. “I am comforting you because you are in pain, and I love you. I would give you all the comfort in the world if it took away your pain.”

His words seemed to make Grantaire cry even harder, but the dark haired man allowed himself to be taken into Enjolras’ embrace, and buried his face into his Apollo’s shirt. Enjolras rubbed soothing circles onto his back and allowed him to soak the material of his shirt with tears, occasionally placing gentle kisses into his mess of dark curls. Eventually, Grantaire cried himself out, and they laid there in silence for the longest time; for so long, in fact, Enjolras wasn’t sure if Grantaire was even awake, or if he had fallen back to sleep after exhausting himself with tears. 

“Grantaire?” He said softly, just loud enough to be hear but not loud enough to disturb the other man if he had fallen asleep. A muffled groan and a nod against his chest let him know that he was still awake, merely very still, and very quiet. Enjolras took a deep breath; the silence had given him chance to think about what he was going to say, but confronting Grantaire about his attempt to take his own life made him feel uncharacteristically nervous. “Can we talk about it, please?”

“No.”

The answer was short and instant, the tone full of an authority that Enjolras had never before associated with Grantaire. Enjolras sighed, and Grantaire stiffened at the sound, but did not remove himself from the embrace. The blond knew that getting Grantaire to admit his demons would not be an easy task if he had already decided that he would keep them private; next to Enjolras, Grantaire was the most stubborn addition to les amis. But Enjolras was determined, especially so when he was passionate about his subject, which in this case was Grantaire. He bit his lip, and then said, “Grantaire, please. I cannot help you if you refuse to talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help, and I certainly did not ask for it.” Grantaire snapped, finally pulling out of Enjolras’ arms as good as he could in the limited space available. The blond simply sat up in return, moving so that he was sat by Grantaire’s feet, feeling quite stung by his lover’s sudden display of hostility. 

“Then what do you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered, attempting to cover up the slither of rejection he felt. 

“You want to know what I want?” The cynic laughed bitterly, as if it was a stupid question, and all Enjolras could do was nod his head, because this wasn’t the Grantaire he knew, and he didn’t know how to handle him. Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “I want to go back in time, and make sure that whoever found me hadn’t. I want to never have opened my eyes. I want to be dead, Enjolras. I do not want to hurt anymore, I do not want your help, and I do not want to talk about it. I just wish to end it.”

Enjolras stared wide eyed as the other man spoke, each word piercing his heart, and then he began to do something entirely unknown with him. He began to cry, sobs heaving their way up his throat and reverberating around the sterile room. Grantaire looked surprised at the sudden outburst, his expression so horrified it looked as if the world had just blown up before him and he was staring at the shattered remains. 

“What about me, Grantaire?” Enjolras sobbed, his hands fisting into the bed sheets. “You would leave me here, to mourn a love that I could never replace?”

Grantaire scoffed, “You do not love me. You simply pity me, and you cannot resist a pitiful cause. All of you, you all pity me. And I cannot even blame you, because I am nothing but a worthless drunk. ”

Enjolras recoiled, “You think so little of me to actually doubt that I love you? That I would be unable to function properly without you?”

“That’s precisely what I think,” The dark haired man snarled, his voice encased in a raspy undertone due to the tube that had been down his throat to purge its contents. 

“You are a fool, Grantaire.” Enjolras shook his head sadly, unable to keep the sneer off of his face, even as tears dried on his cheeks and left his skin feeling tight. “How can you not see that I adore you? You think I would actually pretend to love you? You think it is nothing by pretence when I tell you that I would be nothing without you now that I know what it’s like to be loved by you? If that is the case then you’re sorely mistaken, Grantaire. You are loved. By our friends and most of all by me.”

He glared at his love, his temper shrouding the part of his judgement that told him he should be a little less callow, more gentle and supportive rather than trying to yell his way out of the situation. Enjolras wiped his face with the back of his hand, taking a deep breath in attempt to compose himself. Meanwhile, Grantaire simply stared at him with wide eyes, blue shimmering to meet burning green. 

“How?” Grantaire wailed, taking this time to burst into tears once again. Enjolras was startled to see that the man had any more tears left in him. “How am I to believe that, when you are so wonderful? You are so full of beliefs and ideals and triumph, yet I am nothing. You are everything I am not yet wish to be, I am your complete opposite. How are you supposed to love me, when I am nothing compared to you? It does not make sense, and I cannot understand it. You cannot love me, for there is nothing about me to love.” 

“There is everything to love where you are concerned,” Enjolras’ voice was soft once again, as he rubbed his hand along Grantaire’s shin soothingly. “We may not share the same beliefs or passions, but that does not mean I cannot love you. I am in love with your creativity, with your ability to bring balance into my life for the first time; I am in love with the very idea of you. You are a cynic and you show little care for the things I believe in, but I would not have you any other way. I love the way you argue with me when you think I’m wrong. I love you, simply for being yourself, and I wish that you could see yourself through my eyes, because then you would understand. Please, Grantaire. Let me help you.”

“Why?”

“Because as you are destroying yourself, you are destroying me. I cannot bear to watch you in pain any longer.” Enjolras leaned over the other man to place a kiss to his forehead, and then he sat back on his heels to watch Grantaire for his answer. The dark haired man slowly nodded, although his eyes swam with doubt and disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's possibly a little too much speech in this for my liking, but this is all that I could come up with, so I hope you enjoy it none the less.


	3. Come As You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras makes a decision for Grantaire, but fails to fill him in.

When Grantaire settled back into sleep for the night, Enjolras slipped out of the room and quickly made his way back home, sure that the cynic would be alright on his own for an hour or two. Back in the familiar safety of his own apartment, Enjolras was a man on a mission; he all but turned the place upside down, looking for anything that Grantaire might find to cause himself damage. He searched cupboards, underneath the bed and in the toilet basin; he searched in all of the small cervices that he wasn’t even sure that Grantaire himself had thought of, but he knew that he had to be thorough to make sure Grantaire remained safe. 

By the end of his rummage, four bottles of vodka, two bottles of absinth and a generous amount of wine had accumulated on the kitchen counter; the vodka and absinth Enjolras had found stashed around in obscene places, while he pulled the rest out of Grantaire’s alcohol cupboard beneath the coffee maker. It took almost twenty minutes, but the blond man eventually managed to pour every drop of the harmful substances down the kitchen sink, and had thrown all of the empty glasses into a large trash bag. That left him with only a few objects left to deal with; a razorblade that Enjolras knew Grantaire had not used on himself, but was going to dispose of just for safe measure, and a large bottle of pills filled with someone else’s medication. Enjolras did not know where the medicine came from, but he had no intention to ask. The razorblade went in the trash bag with the glass bottles, and then the revolutionary stomped into the bathroom and poured all of the pills down the toilet, watching as the water swept them away. Grantaire would have a fit when he got home and found that his stash of alcohol had been disposed of, but Enjolras was determined to get the man sober, even if the effort killed him. 

Enjolras returned to the hospital soon after disposing of Grantaire’s vices, a bag of his lover’s belongings thrown over his shoulder and slipped into the seat beside his bed as if he had never even left. He doubted Grantaire had even stirred from his sleep in his absence, and for that he was glad. With Grantaire’s current frame of mind, he would probably take the golden haired boy’s absence as a lack of feeling on Enjolras’ part. Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand into his own and curled up in the chair once again as he had done the night before, drifting off to sleep quickly despite his discomfort. 

_____

When Grantaire opened his eyes, he looked to his side to see Enjolras, fast asleep in that God awful plastic chair, his knees tucked into his chest. It was strange to see Enjolras look so vulnerable; usually in sleep he looked peaceful, unusually relaxed, but there in the chair, he looked exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes made his skin look washed out and pale, and the manner in which his eyebrows were pulled together suggested that his dreams were less than pleasant. Grantaire felt guilty for causing the tense hunch of his shoulders; had he known that it would affect his Apollo this much, he would have never swallowed the bottle pills. Had he not believed himself a pitiful burden, he wouldn’t have drunk three bottles of wine, and then started on a bottle of vodka to remove his self-hating thoughts. 

But, to the cynic, he was a burden. He was an addict, and he couldn’t think about giving up his vices because then he knew for sure that the thoughts of self-hate that crippled him would be intensified, and he did not know how he would cope. Sober, Grantaire loathed himself to the very core; drunk, he merely disliked himself. It was a sober man who had made the decision to end his life, but that night not even the alcohol could dismiss the thoughts. And that was, after all, why Grantaire drank. He drank because alcohol was the only thing that convinced him to continue through his pitiful existence. 

It was easy for Grantaire to see himself as a burden. How could he not, when Enjolras worked all the time and got so frustrated when Grantaire tried to divert his attention? Grantaire did not desire every ounce of Apollo’s attention, for he knew that he certainly did not deserve it, but there were times when not even the alcohol could quell his darkest thoughts, and at those times he begged for Enjolras to put his work away, for the golden Apollo was the perfect distraction to all of his anger and hatred. It was usually at those times that Enjolras got angry, and accused Grantaire of caring nothing for the good he was trying to do. The words ‘useless drunk’ were often thrown around, and on those nights Grantaire would sleep on the couch and cry silently while Enjolras dominated the bedroom. 

And then there were Les Amis. He was a burden, even to them, and he was not as heavily involved with them. Courfeyrac, who he was possibly closest to out of all of them, was always full of sorrowful sighs whenever Grantaire drank a little too much at their meetings. And Combeferre, who had very little patience for him drunk or sober, often whined about his presence, and asked why the brown haired man even bothered attending meetings if he had no intention to assist their cause. Grantaire was there for Enjolras, and there wasn’t one member of Les Amis who didn’t know that. 

Grantaire knew that they would not miss him. 

Enjolras stirred in the chair, pulling Grantaire out of his harmful thoughts. He blinked and groaned, stretching out in a way that mesmerised Grantaire, and then smiled gently, “Good morning.”

Grantaire nodded, sighing internally when Enjolras’ hand found its way into his own and squeezed slightly, “Good morning, Apollo.” 

“Joly said that you can leave today, your tests came back well.” Enjolras rubbed his eyes with his spare hand as he informed Grantaire that he would be able to go home, and the brunette was only slightly thrilled that he would be able to return to his vices. He had spent little more than 48 hours sober, and his body already ached with the desire for liquor. Enjolras smiled, cocking his head to the side slightly, “Technically, you’re supposed to be here for a minimum of two weeks for observation, but I convinced Joly to let me to take you home sooner.” 

“Thank you,” Grantaire smiled, perpetually thankful for Enjolras’ skills of persuasion. He could think of nothing worse than spending two weeks trapped in a hospital bed with no means of accessing any alcohol. He had not spent two weeks sober since he was a teenager.

Enjolras excused himself as a nurse entered the room, carrying a tray of food for Grantaire, claiming that he would return shortly with Joly so that they could leave. Grantaire made short work of the food, eying the IV in his hand with accusatory eyes, eager for its removal. He hated needles almost as much as he hated disappointing his dearest Apollo. 

True to his word, Enjolras walked back into the room as Grantaire threw the crust of his toast back down onto the tray, Joly in tow. He sat back down in his seat, a strange glint shimmering in his eyes. Joly checked the brunette’s charts and the machines he was hooked up to before he actually started working on Grantaire. The medic pursed his lips, and then took Grantaire’s needled hand in his to remove the IV, “You need to come back in for more tests but I’ll let you know the details for that later.” Grantaire rolled his eyes at the thought of more tests. Just the night before, Joly had put him through four hours of testing, taking blood samples with needles that made the cynic squeeze Enjolras’ hand so hard his fingers turned white. 

“You’re free to go. Enjolras, you just need to fill some forms in at the front desk.” Joly smiled as he pulled a pair of white plastic gloves from his hands and threw them into the trash can at the bottom of the bed. The golden boy smiled politely and left the room to deal with the paperwork, and Joly perched himself on the side of Grantaire’s bed as the brunette pushed himself up into a seated position. The cynic regarded his friend with caution as the hypochondriac doctor opened his mouth to talk and put a hand on his shoulder, “Look, Grantaire… I’m only letting you go home because Enjolras thinks it’s for the best, and while I’ve never doubted Enjolras’ judgement before, this time I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, and I know the rest of our friends are too. We don’t want you pulling something like that again.” 

Grantaire didn’t receive a chance to reply. Joly merely smiled, and stood up to leave the room so that Grantaire could change into his own clothes in peace. The cynic did so swiftly, discarding the hospital gown that he’d been trapped in for nearing three days onto the end of the bed, and slipping into a shirt that belonged to Enjolras and was a little too big for him, but he favoured anyway. He particularly disliked the idea of his friends keeping an eye on him. Grantaire liked to remain on the side lines, observing rather than being observed; he liked to slip in that extra bottle of wine when no one was looking, and he liked to let the guard slip off of his expression when he knew that others were too transfixed with their personal business to notice the bitterness on his face. 

Grantaire pushed the thought from his mind. He would cross that bridge when and if he had to. He left the room that had been his home for the past three days. He met Enjolras where he was waiting by the entrance, leaning against the wall and looking more like a Greek god than should ever be possible for a mere human being. Enjolras took his hand as soon as Grantaire reached him, clasping their fingers together a little tighter than usual, as if he were afraid that anything else would allow Grantaire to slip through his fingers. They drove back to their apartment in silence, Grantaire occasionally fiddling with the radio before switching it off altogether, feeling completely uncomfortable with the situation. 

The first thing the cynic did when Enjolras unlocked the door and held it open for him was walk to the kitchen. He bent down and opened the door to his alcohol cupboard, his hand idly swatting around within for a bottle; when he came up empty he frowned, assuming that he’d forgotten to restock after finishing the last bottle, but that was an unusual occurrence. He had never forgotten before. He walked into the bedroom instead, strolling past Enjolras, who had settled onto the couch with a queer look on his face, and check the hiding places he had created around the room. They were all empty, as were the ones in the bathroom. It was then that he realised Enjolras had been back to the apartment, and he’d drained the place of all of Grantaire’s distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Grantaire should have been let out so soon but I got bored writing him in the hospital soooo he's out!  
> Feedback of any sort is loved.


	4. The Rise and Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras forces Grantaire to give up his vices, and confess his secrets in the process.

“What have you done?” Grantaire demanded in a shaking voice as he stormed back into the lounge, one quivering finger extended before him to point accusatorily at his Apollo. Enjolras merely looked up at him in return, innocence written across his features as he gazed upon the cynic as if he’d gone mad. Grantaire pursed his lips in retaliation, moving to stand in front of the other man as he glared downwards into green eyes, “You’ve done something, I know you have. You’ve disposed of it all and left me with nothing, haven’t you? Enjolras, tell me now, where is it?!”

“Where is what, Grantaire?” Enjolras sighed, patting the seat next to him and grabbing the standing man’s wrist in attempts to pull him down onto the couch. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy. Joly says that you are in a fragile condition and should have bed rest for the next two days. Getting worked up like this will do you no good, why don’t you sit down for a bit and I’ll go make some tea?”

Grantaire scoffed and threw his arms up into the air; he felt drained and he ached and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest for a while, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Enjolras until the other, more pressing matter was resolved. Enjolras maintained that clueless expression as he looked upwards at Grantaire, his bright eyes wide and innocent, and for some unfathomable reason, the look made the drunkard even angrier than he would have been if Enjolras was honest about his intentions. Grantaire was a desperate man, he had no time for the silly games that his lover was playing. When he spoke, his voice was a rough yell, his throat still sore from the tubes that had choked him mere days before, “I don’t want tea, for Christ’s sake Enjolras! My drink, where is it? The wine, the vodka, the absinth, what have you done with it? It was there before and now it has magically gone missing, so I know you’ve done something, stop treating me like a fool and tell me where it is!”

“Down the sink,” Enjolras shrugged, his face losing all innocence and transforming into a steely mask, the same shield that he adapted whenever he spoke in public or in front of great crowds. It was the look he adopted when he was determined; when he knew that he was preparing for a battle of some sort. He stood up so that he the physical higher ground, even if it were only by a few inches, and he was looking down into the watery blue eyes of the brunette. He spoke in a rough voice, his tone stern and final, “I won’t have you drinking anymore, look at what it’s done. So many times I’ve nearly lost you because of the drink, and this time it was so close it was almost too late. I should have done the wise thing long ago and intervened, but I so foolishly believed that eventually you would help yourself, yet you never have. I won’t lose you, Grantaire, not to the bottle and the decisions you make under its influence.” 

For a fraction of a second, Enjolras thought that Grantaire might lash out and hit him, and he prepared himself for some sort of blow. The alcoholic had never struck him before, but Enjolras had never before stolen all of his supplies, forcing him to quit altogether without any say in the matter. Desperation made men do unordinary things, he resolved, so he would forgive Grantaire for whatever might come to pass. Grantaire, however, did not strike his god. The anger melted off of his face and dropped to his knees, tears staining his cheeks instantly. For a moment, Enjolras could do nothing but stand and stare out of shock, before he pulled himself together and sunk to the ground beside his fallen love and enveloped him in his arms, whispering softly, “It’s going to be fine, Grantaire, we can do this.” 

“Get off of me,” Grantaire used weak arms to attempt to shove his other half away, but his attempts bore little force. He pounded on the golden haired man’s chest, attempting to take his frustrations out on the cause, “You are a cruel man, Enjolras. You would take away from me the thing that removes my pain? Is this some act of hatred for troubling you so much? Do you intend to torment me so?”

“It’s an act of love, Grantaire.” Enjolras scolded him gently, refusing to be pushed away. He shifted, pulling the distraught man so that he was in his lap, and the brunette went without protestation, allowing himself to be folded into Enjolras’ arms, burying his face in his Apollo’s chest as the blond spoke. “I cannot let you carry on this way. You’re dealing with your pain in a way that takes away one form and replaces it with another. I want you to be happy, and that will never happen if you carry on the way you have been. You can think me cruel, but know that I do this out of love. I do this for you. Believe me, if I did not think this to be for the best, I would allow you your vices.” 

The cynic was silent for a long moment; his frantic breathing evened out to the point where Enjolras knew that he was no longer crying, yet neither man made a move to adjust their arrangement. Grantaire’s hand remained fisted into Apollo’s soft shirt, while Enjolras trailed soothing circles across the top of the other man’s back absentmindedly, quite happy to forget his obligations to make sure that his love was okay. And Grantaire would be okay, Enjolras would make sure of it. He would forgo all of his duties and missions to ensure that Grantaire smiled genuinely again. 

It was Grantaire who eventually broke the soft silence that had settled over them, simply because Enjolras had been so content to hold the broken man and allow him time to think. Grantaire spoke in a broken whisper, and Enjolras could think of nothing other than the fact that he had never before seen his lover like this; Grantaire was usually so cocky, so self-assured and confident. To see him so broken was enough to make Enjolras’ heart ache dully. 

“I’m scared, Enjolras.” Grantaire confessed, and the blond tightened his grip around the other’s shoulder in retaliation. “I don’t want to quit. I would beg of you not to make me quit but I have always done, and will always do, as you demand.” A pause, and then, “I need to drink. I need it to survive; you would not understand, but I wish you could.”

“Make me understand, I cannot attempt to help if you don’t try,” said Enjolras softly as he gently buried his nose into Grantaire’s dark curls. Had Grantaire been in a right frame of mind, he would have made note of the fact that he was the only one to ever see Enjolras like this, and for that he felt blessed. None of Les Amis had ever seen Enjolras act in a manner so tender and patient and that was secretly Grantaire’s favourite thing about being in a relationship with the real life Apollo. He had seen sides to the man that no one, not even Combeferre, had seen. He had seen Enjolras doubt himself, he had seen him cry, and he had seen him so tired he could barely keep his head up and all he could do was cling to Grantaire like a child to a mother. He had seen Enjolras when he discarded the composure he so strictly kept up, and no one else could be so lucky as to say that. 

The cynic bit his lip. He did not know if he could do it. How could he even begin to make Enjolras understand the things that not even he himself understood? It felt impossible; his throat felt thick with words that he could not even begin to verbalise, but he knew that he had to at least try. If Enjolras understood, then perhaps he’d let him carry on with his bad habits. That was Grantaire’s hope, and he was so sure that if Enjolras understood, he would not be able to deny him. 

Slicking his dry lips, the alcoholic took a deep breath and in a barely audible voice began to confess thing he had long kept private, considering his words carefully before vocalising them, “I… I hate myself, Enjolras. I don’t know why, I just always have. And… it’s stupid, it’s so stupid but I can’t change, no matter how much I try. The only thing that helps is when I drink. When I don’t drink, I can’t stand myself; it’s like living with my own worst enemy, and no matter what I do, I can’t escape. I’m constantly stuck with this person that I hate. When I drink, I don’t hate myself so much. I drink not because I like to, I drink because I need to. I haven’t truly enjoyed drinking for so long now, but how do I live without it?” 

“By talking to me,” Grantaire felt Enjolras’ arms tighten around him, and a chaste kiss was placed into his hair. “What happened that night, Grantaire? Is that why you tried to kill yourself?”

“I don’t know what happened that night.” Grantaire answered honestly; he could scarcely remember anything that had happened, other than drinking, and then finding the pills that he couldn’t remember coming into possession of, and then passing out on the cold bathroom floor. “When you work late… when you’re not around to distract me… I tend to drink until I pass out, or at least until I can’t think anymore, but it just wasn’t working. The more I drank the more I hated myself; I couldn’t shut those thoughts up that told me to end everything. I just kept thinking… you’re letting him down. That’s all I ever do, Enjolras, I let you down. I’m a worthless drunk, and you deserve so much more. I will never be able to fathom why you chose me, but I’m thankful that you did.“ The drunk took a deep breath before continuing, and Enjolras waited patiently for whatever would come next. 

“I got to thinking about you, you and all of our friends, and the way you all look at me with so much pity; the way that Combeferre loathes my mere presence and the way that sadness takes over Jehan’s eyes when he thinks I drink too much. I thought of all that and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t bear being the burden anymore, to be the only member of Les Amis that brings nothing worth while to the table; I wanted to escape it all. And now I’ve disappointed you all, I can’t help but wish that the meeting had run late so that I wouldn’t have this to loathe myself for too.” 

“Never say that again,” Enjolras snapped. “I can scarcely forgive myself for how late I was from that meeting at it is, if I had been even later and something had happened to you, then I would have never forgiven myself. I love you, Grantaire, what is it about that that you struggle to believe? You do not burden me or let me down. I am proud to have you as my own. Promise me you’ll never try to leave me like that again, for I do not know what I would do without you. Promise me, Grantaire, I shan’t let you out of my sight again until you do.”

“I promise,” Grantaire swore, although it took a moment and Enjolras doubted how genuine the promise truly was, but he knew not to push his luck for one night; he had already force Grantaire to abandon his greatest vice and to divulge the inner most workings of his mind. Enjolras could expect little more from him in one night, especially when they both knew that a struggle was up ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm useless at naming chapters.


	5. Hold Out Your Hands and Lean Upon Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac aids Enjolras in dealing with Grantaire's struggles

Enjolras awoke slowly to a wretched sound emitting from the bathroom; a noise that, at first, he could not process. He rolled over and clawed at the space next to him, his hand desperately seeking out Grantaire so that he could go back to sleep, but his hand grasped nothing but bed sheet. Upon coming up empty, he sat up and scrubbed his eyes, panicking instantly at his lover’s absence from their bed. He looked around the dark room frantically, calling out, “Grantaire?” 

He was met with no reply other than more heaving from the bathroom, and at that, he realised what was happening. He pushed himself up and out of bed, shivering against the sudden coldness, and padded across the room to the en suite bathroom that he and Grantaire shared. His mind briefly flitted back to the other times he had been woken up in the same manner; the nights where Grantaire had stayed out into the early hours of the morning and returned home far too drunk, and his muscles automatically tensed up as if he were preparing for some sort of drunken argument. It took Enjolras a moment to realise that this time Grantaire was sober. 

The cynic was hunched over the toilet basin, his bare shoulders quivering and twitching violently. Enjolras rushed across the room, placing a hand a top of Grantaire’s head, smoothing back his soggy curls. 

“Please, Enjolras” The man turned his face upwards, revealing dilated pupils and abnormally pale skin, his eyes filled with tears that were spilling down his cheeks. His eyes begged with Enjolras, desperate and devastated, “Please, end my suffering, I cannot bear this. Have mercy on me, mighty Apollo and allow me something to drink so that this pain might go away. I am not strong enough to endure this.” 

“You have a fever,” The blond informed, pressing the back of his hand to Grantaire’s forehead as he sat down on the bathroom floor next to his love, ignoring the man’s pleas for mercy. The brunette tore his eyes away from Enjolras to lean over the toilet basin once again, emptying the contents of his stomach and shivering ferociously, despite the sheen of sweat that covered his entire body. For a moment, Enjolras worried that he had made a grievous mistake; he had never seen Grantaire look so ill or so pathetically desperate. When Grantaire had finally stopped retching, Enjolras asked, “How long have you been in here?”

“Twenty minutes, half an hour,” Grantaire wiped his mouth on a piece of toilet paper, and then allowed his body to sag against his Apollo. He shivered again and grabbed Enjolras’ arms, wrapping them around himself in an attempt to provide warmth. Every part of his body ached terribly, and the light emitting from the ceiling made it almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open, his head pounding so terribly. He whimpered, “please, Enjolras.” 

“Shhh,” The blond cooed, “Will you be alright to get back in bed or do you still need to be sick?” 

“Don’t make me move,” Grantaire groaned, frowning deeply at the thought. He allowed his head to loll backwards against Enjolras’ shoulder, although the action sent a harsh wave of sickness though his stomach. “Please just turn out the light. My head is throbbing and it is only making it worse.” 

Enjolras obliged immediately, and the brunette whimpered as he curled up on the cold bathroom floor. The room was plunged into darkness, although the action did very little to ease the pain in Grantaire’s head. He wished that God would strike him down for his sins, wished that Lucifer would climb up from hell and drag him back down with him. He wished darkly that Enjolras or one of Les Amis would just put him out of his misery.

“Here,” Grantaire felt a hand slid under his head, and then the cold hard floor was replaced by something soft and comforting. He hummed in appreciation, opening his eyes in time to see a blanket drape over his shoulders. Enjolras slipped under the blanket with him, wrapping his arm around the brunette’s waist and allowing his hand to rest on the shivering man’s stomach. Before Grantaire could even inquire about what the living god was doing, Enjolras whispered, “I shall not leave you in your suffering. If you can’t make it back to bed, then I will sleep here with you.” 

Grantaire did not sleep that night, and he was unsure as to if Enjolras did either, but his thoughts were so frantic and exhausted that the brunette did not even think to ask. When the morning came, Enjolras carried Grantaire into their bedroom without a word, and placed him in the centre of the bed, wrapped up in blankets like a burrito. 

++++++++++

Courfeyrac perched his chin in his hands as he leaned forward, elbows pressing into his knees, as he watched Grantaire from the chair beside his bed. Enjolras was asleep on the couch in the lounge, having stayed up for two consecutive days with Grantaire, who also had not been granted any sleep. Courfeyrac had turned up by chance, just stopping by to see how his friends were doing after not hearing from them since he visited Grantaire in the hospital; Enjolras, of course, had not asked for Courfeyrac’s help, or even mentioned that Grantaire needed help. His sobriety was a complete secret to everyone, barring Joly, who Enjolras had called, desperate for advice. Courfeyrac had simply turned up, saw the mess that was Enjolras and, after being filled in briefly, insisted that he was allowed to take over for a few hours. 

Grantaire, Enjolras told him, was not doing well. The absence of alcohol from his system left him weary, running a constant fever that left his hands jittery and his skin clammy. He could not sleep, although he didn’t have the energy to do anything other than lay in bed, and he couldn’t eat anything without throwing it back up within ten minutes; even water made his stomach clench tightly, but Enjolras forced it upon him anyway. He didn’t speak much, too tired and in too much pain, but he did occasionally cry and beg for alcohol. The cynic, according to Enjolras, cried and begged and tried to blackmail his way into possession of so much as a small glass of wine, but Enjolras said it was important to deny him. 

“Can you fetch me a glass of wine?” Grantaire rasped after roughly half an hour of Courfeyrac trying to urge conversation out of him, yet being met by stony silence. 

The man jumped at the sound of his friend’s voice, so lost in his own thoughts that he had forgotten where he was. He sighed mournfully and looked at Grantaire, who was looking up at him with wide, hopeful bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, Grantaire. Not this time.” 

Grantaire nodded, obviously expecting the response he received, and closed his eyes again, mumbling something under his breath about it being worth a shot. Courfeyrac didn’t try to press for conversation after that. He doubted that Grantaire even had the strength in him to keep up a conversation, so he went back to watching. 

Surprisingly, after about thirty minutes of silence, Courfeyrac just watching Grantaire’s breathing, scared that it might halt, and Grantaire pretending the other man didn’t even exist, the cynic fell asleep. Courfeyrac didn’t realise it at first, until he began to snore, and his face lost the tense traces it had harboured moments before, and then he smiled; Enjolras was resting in the lounge, and Grantaire was finally asleep too. And if Courfeyrac himself even fell asleep after a while of watching, well he wouldn’t tell anybody. 

The cheerful man was still asleep when someone screamed, the sound high pitched and blood curdling, and he jerked in surprise and fell from his chair, sprawling onto the floor as he tried to compose himself enough to see what it was that Grantaire was screaming about. Enjolras burst into the room as the cynic let out another, quieter squeal, and Courfeyrac was prising himself off of the floor to try and wake Grantaire up. The golden boy’s green eyes were on fire, and upon detecting the source of the noise, he practically pounced onto the bed, taking Grantaire’s face into his hands.

“Grantaire, wake up!” Enjolras commanded, his thumbs skidding across the terrified man’s cheeks, and Courfeyrac felt as though he was intruding on an incredibly private moment by watching. “Wake up, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s just a nightmare. Open your eyes and it’ll all go away.”

With a gentle squeeze to a shoulder, blue eyes snapped open, frantically flicking from one side of the room to the other as the cynic surveyed his surroundings, clearly shaken by the occurrence that had just taken place in his mind. Enjolras had slept for nearing three hours, and Grantaire only two, but those two hours were enough to make the cynic wish to elude sleep for the remainder of his life. He groaned and closed his eyes, speaking in a tearful voice, “I cannot escape even in sleep.”

“Joly said this would happen, nightmares are normal during recovery. This is going to get worse before it gets better, but it will get better. We’ll get through this, Grantaire.” Said Enjolras, so softly that Courfeyrac had to look up just to make sure that the voice did actually belong to his friend. Enjolras pressed his forehead against his lover’s, looking him intently in the eye, “I’m going to see Courfeyrac out, and then I’ll be right back. Try to go back to sleep.” 

The man on the floor finally stood now that he had been addressed, blushing slightly as he reached down to squeeze Grantaire’s hand and bid him goodbye. The brunette followed Enjolras out of the room, brushing wild curls out of his eyes as his mind whirred through the last four hours. Once out of earshot of the bedroom, Courfeyrac sighed deeply, “Why didn’t you tell us, Enjolras? We didn’t even know he was getting sober, we could’ve helped. Is this what Joly has been so secretive about?” 

Enjolras nodded, “I needed his advice so I had to tell him, but he promised not to say anything.” He paused. Then, “Courfeyrac, please don’t say anything, you—“ 

“I’m not keeping this from Jehan.” Courfeyrac interrupted, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Fine, tell Jehan,” Enjolras sighed, rolling his eyes. Courfeyrac had expected more of a fight, but then the Enjolras who stood before him was not the fearless leader he was used to. “Grantaire just isn’t up to visitors right now, and you know that when everyone finds out they’re gonna want to come and see him, they’re already calling all the time to see how he is and I have to keep saying he just wants rest for a few days. If they knew the truth I wouldn’t be able to keep them away. He’s going through a lot, more than I imagined, and I just need to look after him right now. I want the decision to tell everybody what’s going on to be his own, because it affects him and no one else, but he can’t think straight right now and aside from a glass of wine, he doesn’t know what he wants. I’m trying to do what’s best for him, Courfeyrac, you’ve got to understand that.”

“I do, I understand.” Courfeyrac said softly, nodding slightly. He did understand; if it were Jehan in Grantaire’s position, he supposed that he would do the exact same. “How are you doing, Enjolras? This must be taking its toll on you as well as Grantaire.” 

“I’m not the one who just got forced to quit god knows how many years of drinking.” Enjolras snapped, but Courfeyrac knew him well enough after all their years of friendship to know when the blond was putting up a strong front. He gave the man a look, one dark eyebrow raised challengingly, and Enjolras sighed. He bit his lip, “He resents me. He hasn’t said so, but I can tell. He talks to me only when he has to and it makes him awfully angry when I sit with him all day. I just… I don’t know what to do. When I got rid of all his alcohol, I didn’t think he’d get sick, and when he got sick, I didn’t think it’d be so bad or last for so long. Joly said that I just have to wait and then he’ll get better but it’s driving me crazy.”

“Me and Jehan will help,” Courfeyrac offered instantly, noting the way that his friend’s usually bright eyes were still encircled with dark, tired bruises. He wanted to help, and he knew that Jehan would too. “You have the spare room. We’ll come and stay, help you out by taking shifts watching Grantaire so that you can sleep.”

Enjolras wanted to reject the offer immediately. It wasn’t Courfeyrac’s place to be watching over Grantaire, and nor was it Jehan’s. Plus, Enjolras owed it to Grantaire, if you will, to be the one to hold his hand and wipe his brow. Grantaire would want Enjolras to be the one to do it, not Courfeyrac, so he felt he shouldn’t even consider the brunette’s offer. And yet, he did. He wanted to politely thank his friend but assure him that they could get through this on their own, but his rationality told him to stop being so stupid. He needed help; he was exhausted and stretched too thin, getting a couple of hours sleep every now and then wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

“For a couple of days, maybe.” Enjolras mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “Only if Jehan doesn’t mind, and so long as it doesn’t upset Grantaire.” He paused to look longingly at his bedroom door. Then, “I should get back to him. I promised I’d only be a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac smiled and began moving towards the door. “I’ll go and talk to Jehan, although you know there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, what with how highly he thinks of Grantaire. I’ll give you a call when we’re on our way over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback on this would be lovely! :)


End file.
